«  •  •» 


BEGGAR   AND    KING 


BEGGAR  AND  KING 


BY 
RICHARD    BUTLER   GLAENZER 


NEW  HAVEN:   YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON:    HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXVII 


COPYRIGHT.  1917 
BY  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


First  published.  October,  1917 


PS 


Acknowledgment  is  made,  with  thanks,  to  Adventure, 
Ainslee's  Magazine,  The  American  Magazine,  The  Book 
man,  The  Boston  Transcript,  The  Century  Magazine,  The 
Forum,  Harper's  Weekly,  The  International,  Life,  Metro 
politan,  Munsey's  Magazine,  The  New  York  Evening  Sun, 
The  New  York  Times,  The  Outlook  (London),  The  Phcenix, 
Poet  Lore,  Poetry,  Poetry  Review  (London),  Rogue,  The 
Royal  Bermuda  Gazette,  The  Smart  Set,  Town  Topics  and 
other  magazines  for  permission  to  reprint  such  of  the 
following  as  have  appeared  in  their  pages. 


612853 

LIBRARY 


TO 

MY    MOTHER 

WHOM     LOVE     AND     SELF-DENIAL 

HAVE    LIFTED    TO    HEIGHTS 
BEYOND     THE     POWERS     OF     TRIBUTE 


My  brain  F II  prove  the  female  to  my  soul, 
My  soul  the  father;  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding"  thoughts, 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  -world 
In  humours  like  the  people  of  this  world.  .  .  . 
Thus  play  I  in  one  person  many  people, 
And  none  contented:  sometimes  am  I  king; 
Then  treasons  make  me  wish  myself  a  beggar, 
And  so  I  am:   then  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king; 
Then  am  I  king'd  again.  .  .  .      Whatever  I  be, 
Nor  I  nor  any  man  that  but  man  is 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleased,  till  he  be  eased 
With  being  nothing. 

— KING  RICHARD  II,   Act  V,   Scene  5. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Masters  of  Earth 1 

The  East  and  the  West : 

Buddha        3 

Mater  Dolorosa 4 

The  Wolf 5 

Measure  for  Measure 6 

A  Twilight  Impression 8 

Ballade  of  Perfumes 9 

Parabalou   .    .    .   Yale! 11 

Bargains 16 

The  Country  Fair 17 

The  Strength  of  the  Hills        ......  19 

The  Test 20 

Sure,  It's  Fun! 21 

Soldier's  Song 23 

Niella 24 

The  Return  of  Baldur 26 

The  New  Beatitude 28 

Vive  La  France ! 30 

In  a  Southern  Garden 31 

[xi] 


Hymn  before  Dawn $2 

Antipodes 34 

The  Casuist 35 

Her  Eyes 36 

The  Castles  of  Youth 37 

The  Garden  of  Moonlight 38 

The  Coquette 39 

Diana's  Song 40 

March  in  Bermuda 41 

A  Maid  of  the  Wood 42 

Yolande's  Song 43 

June 44 

Heavenborn 46 

The  Golden  Plover 47 

Gnomes  and  Gnomides : 

Comparisons •        .52 

A  Grain  of  Truth 52 

The  Empty  Ring 52 

Winter 53 

From  a  Club  Window 53 

Each  to  His  Liking 53 

Colonel  Roosevelt  in  Dominica       ....  54 

The  Young  Soldier 54 

Heredity 55 

Spell  of  the  Orient 58 

A  West  Indian  Dance 60 

[xii] 


Constantinople 61 

To  Maxfield  Parrish 64 

Joseph  Conrad  (Korzeniowski) 65 

Rodin 66 

Richard  Le  Gallienne :    Poet 67 

Cervantes  (Tercentenary) 68 

To  Sarah  Bernhardt 69 

"Neither  Brute  nor  Human" 70 

To  the  Memory  of  Gilbert  Little  Stark         ...  72 

April's  Fool 74 

The  Key  of  Heaven 76 

The  Violin 78 

Motoring  by  Night 80 

Reactions : 

To  a  Life-Plant 81 

To  a  Vireo 81 

To  an  Old  Sugar  Maple 82 

The  House  of  Silence         .......  83 

A  Mother  to  Her  First-born 85 

The  Presence 86 

Trebizond  87 


[  xiii  ] 


MASTERS  OF  EARTH 

Man  runs  half  lame  and  walks  half  blind, 
Though  boasting  rulership  of  earth: 

The  birds  were  fellows  with  the  wind 
Before  he  learned  his  worth. 

What  though  they  travel  half  by  dark ! 

From  pole  to  pole  the  world  was  theirs 
Within  five  suns  from  when  the  ark 

Released  their  kind  in  pairs. 

There  is  no  mountain  lost  in  clouds, 

No  headland  of  eternal  snow, 
No  reef  laid  out  with  spindrift  shrouds 

They  were  not  first  to  know. 

The  gulfs  of  East,  the  bays  of  West, 

The  lakes  and  seas  of  South  and  North, 

Were  fleeced  with  gulls  at  pilgrim-rest 
When  Jason  wandered  forth. 

The  nightingale,  which  through  the  spring 
Could  bow  a  haughty  Pharaoh's  crown, 

In  Britain's  August  dusk  would  sing 
Away  some  Druid's  frown. 


As  far  apart  as  moon  and  sun 

Were  Nile  and  Thames  those  dragon  days: 
Unknown  to  each  were  they  made  one 

By  songster's  undreamed  ways. 

Unknown  to  both  were  Aztec  glyph 
And  Norseman's  rune:  before  them  all 

Each  palm-plumed  cay  and  pine-maned  cliff 
Had  heard  the  swallow's  call. 

More  than  a  fabled  fount  of  youth 

Was  Florida:  Alaska's  wealth 
Flowed  free,  a  treasure  rich  as  truth, 

On  Nature's  range  of  health. 

Man  schemes  half  mind  and  acts  half  heart; 

For  ages  he  has  thieved  and  slain: 
The  birds — how  glorious  their  part, 

How  innocent  of  pain ! 

Theirs  is  no  furrowed,  blighted  course, 
No  flame-sowed  sky,  no  blood-stained  firth 

Masters  of  air  without  remorse, 
Masters  are  they  of  earth ! 


THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST 

And  there  I  beheld  a  Buddha  upon  a  base  that  had  the 
form  of  a  great  lotus-flower,  and  the  gilding  was  for  the 
most  part  darkened  by  incense.  And  beside  the  Buddha 
stood  an  image  of  Mary,  our  Holy  Mother.  Upon  her 
cheeks  were  carven  the  arrows  of  tears,  and  from  her  eyes 
real  tears  seemed  ever  about  to  fall.  It  was  as  if  the  living 
woman  grieved  before  me.  Buddha  and  Mary!  "The 
East  and  the  West"  said  my  heart. — "Viajes  en  Mejico," 
by  Jorge  de  Morjo  y  Zampuco. 

BUDDHA 

Aloof,  profound,  ignoring  Fate  and  Death, 
He  dreams  upon  a  gorgeous  lotus-throne; 
To  whom  world  cataclysms  are  a  breath 
Fanning  the  Angkor  Tom's  most  massive  stone. 

Immutably  serene:  man's  hopes  and  fears 
Are  phantoms  to  his  introspective  gaze 
Which  plumbs  below  the  deepest  well  of  tears 
And  soars  above  the  highest  crown  of  praise. 

To  him  the  perfumed  chanting  of  the  East 
Is  as  the  sea's  resurgence  in  a  shell ; 
Eternity,  his  temple;  Silence,  priest; 
And  Life,  the  tinkle  of  a  muffled  bell. 

[  3   ] 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

Human  are  those  eyes  of  sorrow, 
Mother's  eyes  that  seem  to  pray: 
"Think,  my  Dear  Ones,  of  the  Morrow! 
Winter  follows  May." 

Eyes  made  soft  by  love's  compassion, 
Eyes  made  warm  by  love  that  grows, 
Eyes  that  see  in  woman-fashion 
Thorns  behind  the  rose. 

Eyes  appealing,  interceding: 
"God,  they  know  not  what  they  do; 
They  are  still  the  same  unheeding 
Children  Jesus  knew. 

"Spare  them,  help  them,  for  their  brother! 
Put  away  your  mace  of  pride ! 
'Twas  not  he,  but  I,  his  mother, 
Whom  they  crucified !" 


[  4  ] 


THE  WOLF 

With  the  breath  of  the  wolf  upon  my  neck 

I  feast  upon  the  breathless  stars: 

Arrow  and  Lyre  are  at  my  beck, 

Alcor  am  I  to  all  Mizars. 

But  the  breath  of  the  wolf  is  on  my  neck! 

How  shall  I  match  high  Algebar's 

Girdle  and  sword  of  ageless  light? 

How  shall  I  shun  this  Thing  that  mars 

The  spirit,  blasts  the  heart  with  blight? 

For  the  breath  of  the  wolf  is  on  my  neck! 

Only  for  flesh  the  wolf-pack  yearn ; 

With  blood  alone  the  wolf-maw  streams; 

Only  in  lust  the  wolf-eye  gleams: 

For  blood  and  flesh  to  evil  burn. 

And  the  breath  of  the  wolf  is  on  my  neck! 

Heartened,  I  drink  the  star-brimmed  night, 

My  back  to  That  which  whines  and  harrs  ; 

But  can  I  feast  in  fast's  despite 

Uncheered  by  patient  Balthazars? 

Ah,  the  breath  of  the  wolf  is  on  my  neck! 

Have  I  the  strength  to  scorn  the  scars, 

The  iron  fearlessness  to  check 

That  which  would  tear  me  from  the  stars  ?- 

The  breath  of  the  wolf  upon  my  neck! 

[  5  ] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE 

AND  ONE  ANSWERED:  Lord, 

Of  a  truth,  brave  Lord, 

I  am  all  the  follies  and  yet 

I  have  sinned  not  blindly, 

But  bravely,  as  a  man ;  so  let 

My  punishment  be  as  brave, 

Albeit  courage  win  not  Heaven. 

What  hast  thou  done,  brave  man? 

All  things  that  man  can  do,  brave  Lord. 

Whatsoever  Hell  thou  choose, 

That  Hell  is  thine. 

AND  ONE  ANSWERED:  Lord, 

Of  a  truth,  kind  Lord, 

I  am  weak  but  humble,  and  yet 

I  have  erred  not  often, 

And  kindly  have  I  been;  so  let 

Thy  judgment  be  as  kind, 

Howbeit  meekness  gain  not  Heaven. 

What  hast  thou  done,  kind  man? 

Most  things  that  man  may  do,  kind  Lord. 

Whatsoever  Heaven  thou  choose, 

That  Heaven  is  thine. 

(  6  ] 


AND  ONE  ANSWERED:  Lord, 

Of  a  truth,  O  Lord, 

Who  am  I  to  answer?  .  .  .  And  yet 

I  have  lived,  Life-Giver, 

And  oh,  how  sweet  was  life !     So  let 

Its  sweetness  cling  and  lo, 

I  shall  but  live  again  ...  in  Heaven. 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  man? 

Thou  only  knowest  true,  O  Lord. 

Whatsoever  Heaven   thou   choose, 

That  Heaven  is  mine. 


[  7  ] 


A  TWILIGHT  IMPRESSION 

My  window  is  a  picture-frame; 
Though  modest  white  its  uncarved  rim, 
The  feast  it  holds  when  day  grows  dim 
Would  put  a  master's  brush  to  shame : 

Grass  that  is  rippling  green  save  where 
Lean  earth  thrusts  out  an  empty  hand 
Or  apple-trees  are  spreading,  bland 
With  burdens  that  enrich  the  air. 

Closer,  a  pine-branch  etches  black 
The  rainbowed  copper  of  the  reach. 
Louder  and  louder  booms  the  beach ; 
Softer  the  pine's  sough  answers  back. 

Tenuous  fading  colors  edge 
The  purple  frieze  of  western  woods, 
And  now  the  chuckling  tide-rip  hoods 
Darkly  the  last  near-lying  sedge. 

Art,  do  your  fingers,  born  of  man, 
Capture  this  fleeting  loveliness? 
Listen!  a  bird's  wild  note!    Confess, 
You  cannot  paint  the  soul  of  Pan. 

[   8  ] 


BALLADE  OF  PERFUMES 

Haunting  the  air  float  perfumes  of  all  time, 

Phantoms  of  nard  anointing  unknown  kings, 
Wraiths  of  the  incense  circling  orient  clime, 

Ghosts  of  the  myrrh  that  clouded  Nike's  wings. 
Cinnamon,  aloes,  champak — spicy  things 

Strange  to  the  nostrils  freight  each  sunny  ray: 
To  me  more  pregnant  is  the  storm  that  brings 

The  tang  and  tingle  of  the  clean  salt  spray. 

Jinn  of  the  East  pervade  our  smoke  and  grime, 

Heavy  with  musk  that  wreathed  the  tombs  of  Mings, 
Flaunting  about  our  streets  of  nauseous  slime 

Sandalwood,  jingko's  sacred  offerings, 
Swooning  patchouli,  whiff  that  stirs  and  clings — 

Seeking  to  drug  our  senses  to  their  sway: 
To  me  more  potent  is  the  spume  that  flings 

The  tang  and  tingle  of  the  clean  salt  spray. 

Fragrancy  streams  from  jasmine,  cedar,  lime; 

Odorous  rapture  high  in  the  orchid  swings; 
Out  of  exotic  berry,  leaf  and  cyme 

Lovely,  alive,  the  clever  pander  wrings 
Attars  to  tempt  all  vain  soft  overlings — 

Essenced  delight  for  all  with  purse  to  pay: 
To  me  all-priceless  is  the  brine  that  stings, 

The  tang  and  tingle  of  the  clean  salt  spray. 

[  9  ] 


ENVOY 

Flora,  altho  your  wood-and-meadow  springs 
Ravish  and  rule  while  blossomed  fresh  by  May 

Too  brief  their  hour:  forever  Triton  sings 
The  tang  and  tingle  of  the  clean  salt  spray. 


PARABALOU  .   .   .  YALE! 


Have  I  the  Greek  of  it? 

Probably  not, 

Though  Greek  was  my  forte 

In  those  enchanted  days  when  blood  was  hot 

And  conscience  cold, 

With  twice  Odysseus'  wiles  if  half  as  old  ; 

When  I  was  only  "I," 

All  heart  to  spend,  all  heartless  as  I  cashed 

The  often  more-than-monthly  checks 

Coaxed  from  a  drudging  father 

(  Money  was  such  a  bother  !  )  ,  — 

Days  when  all  fruit  seemed  ripe, 

All  mine  to  pick;  when,  armed  with  pipe 

And  jaunty  airs,  I  bet  and  drank  and  mashed, 

Smirking  my  pride  wherl  hailed  a  good  old  sport. 

Don  Juan  ?    No,  a  masquerading  grind 

Who  nursed  within  his  secret  mind 

Worlds  of  conceit  at  skill  to  scan 

Satiric  Aristophanes, 

To  bell  with  ease 

The  Attic  vowel. 

Brekekekex  ! 

As  Greek  or  college  cry 

One  Lar  exempt  from  "Why?" 


Lightly  to  speak  of  it 

Would  have  been  to  court 

A  sophomoric  scowl  ; 

To  hint  at  fluency  so  soon  forgot  — 

Fancy  a  Roman  stammering  "Vivat  Rex!" 

Life  glowed  a  four  years'  span: 

Why  gaze  beyond  with  so  much  to  perplex 

A  boy  who  played  at  being  man? 


Like  chicken-tracks 

My  present  lettering  of  Greek, 

O  Eagle  tongue  which  I  could  all  but  speak! 

There  was  something  exquisite 

In  the  very  look  of  it: 

Rho,  —  the  very  crook  of  it 

Was  a  joy  to  make! 

The  wooing  name  of  Zeus 

Seemed  his  best  excuse 

For  un-Olympian  folly. 

There  was  nothing  base  nor  weak 

In  rare  Aphrodite's  loves, 

Though  her  tributary  doves 

Ever  seemed  to  fly  to  me 

Winged  with  melancholy. 

It  was  no  task  to  stay  awake 

When  it  came  time  to  cram 

Upon  the  spring  exam. 

Artemis  would  sigh  to  me 


And  fill  my  ears  with  music  of  the  moon.  . 

Some  lusty  shout  below 

Would  break  the  spell  too  soon. 

Adream  in  Arcady!     Then  .  .  .  "O—  h! 

Stick  out  your  head  !" 

And  reek  of  Heub's  instead. 


A  rower's  cry,  I  think  ; 

But  now  the  sound  and  swing  of  it 

Call  to  mind  the  Co-op. 

Books,  books,  books! 

What  a  lot  they  cost: 

Good  cash,  hard  cash,  scarce  cash  —  lost  ! 

O-op!  .  .  .  O-op! 

Now  I  hear  the  ring  of  it 

Swelling  from  the  Field. 

Yes,  I'd  fairly  gulp  and  blink 

When  it  meant  that  we  had  won; 

Then  I'd  dance  until  I  reeled, 

Maddened  by  the  fling  of  it. 

How  my  heart  would  ache  and  sink 

When  it  —  but  the  team  had  done 

All  that  any  heroes  could. 

It  was  clearly  understood 

That  they  suffered  more  than  we. 

"Next  year!    Next  year!"  was  the  song  in  me! 


KOO£  Koa£,  WOTT  d)07r.      HapafioXov  —  ? 
O  Memory,  to  play  my  brain  such  tricks! 

[    13   ] 


Am  I  so  old  that  you, 

A  loudly  boasted  friend,        / 

Must  drowse?    Or  have  you  fled 

Defaulter  of  a  wholly  trusted  word  ? 

Or  was  it  gibberish  absurd, 

The  croaking  mockery  of  frogs? 

Vague  as  the  source  of  fables  yawns  the  Styx  ; 

But  the  crisp  words  evoking  sombre  shores, 

The  silver  flood  of  metaphors  — 

They  were  not  dead, 

Nor  that  incomparable  tongue 

In  which  man's  last  farewell  was  sung. 

Parabalou  ! 

I  grope  without  a  clue. 

Am  I  the  least  of  learning's  jam  of  logs, 

I  who  made  sure  on  scholarship  to  stand  ? 

Ah!  ...  I  have  it!    "Put  to  land!" 

The  vortex  of  that  whirlpool  we  call  living 

Had  all  but  sucked  away  my  winded  faith. 

Culture,  be  lenient,  forgiving! 

We  live  so  fast 

That  soon  we  leave  behind  our  deeper  past 

Paced  only  by  its  egotistic  wraith. 


OOL£  Koa£,  ioTT  WOTT.       TlapafiaXov  —  Yale  ! 
No  doubt  assails  me  there! 

That  word  reads  plainly,  more  than  plainly  now, 
Spice  to  my  palate  as  a  home-brewed  ale  ; 
Cherished,  distinct  and  fair 

[    14  ] 


As  if  its  letters  laureled  soft  my  brow : 

Like  "love,"  as  simply  said ; 

Like  love,  how  much  it  means.  .  .  . 

Oh,  more,  a  thousand  times 

Than  when  its  banners  led 

My  feet  to  joyful  scenes. 

Yale!  .  .  .  Yale!  .  .  .  Yale! 

I  hear,  I  hear,  the  Chapel  chimes 

Pouring  their  blessings  on  the  dreams  I  had 

Of  great  endeavors  and  of  greater  deeds, — 

I,  the  small  target  of  conflicting  creeds, 

Three  quarters  good  and  yet  three  quarters  bad. 

Yale!  .  .  .  Yale!  .  .  .  Yale! 

That  is  not  Greek;  and  still,  as  I  look  back, 

I  know  that  it  was  far  more  Greek  to  me 

Than  cryptic  lines  of  Grecian  poesy. 

Was  I  more  young  than  others  in  my  lack 

Of  insight,  forethought,  grasp  of  future  needs? 

Lux  et  Veritas!    Lux  et  Veritas! 

Blazoned  before  my  eyes! 

Surely  I  read ;  for  who  could  pass 

So  blindly,  even  myopic  youth? 

Lux  et  Veritas!     Lux  et  Veritas! 

To  shun  all  paths  which  count  on  cloaking  night; 

To  walk  alone  sooner  than  crutched  by  lies: 

Light  and  Truth, 

Truth  the  pollen  of  Light, 

Spirit  of  Yale,  Yale,  Yale! 


BARGAINS 

From  its  cramped  couch  of  murky  amethyst 

Manhattan  loomed,  gilt  towers  and  parapets 

A  jumbled  mass  of  giant  silhouettes 

Shrouded  by  urban  morning's  tarnished  mist — 

What  scene  more  pregnant  to  the  satirist 

Than  this  vast  sheol  built  by  marionettes 

Whose  strings  are  their  own  fancied  needs,  and  debts 

Owed  to  the  millionaire  philanthropist. 

"For  less  than  thirty  dollars,  it  was  bought — 
All  of  that  island — so  the  records  run," 
Drawled  out  a  bronzed  old  seaman.    "Folks  allow, 
I  reckon,  'twas  a  bargain  price.    Aye,  naught, 
In  truth,  for  woodlands  singing  in  the  sun; 
But  who  with  eyes  would  buy  what  it  is  now  ?" 


THE  COUNTRY  FAIR 

I  went  to  a  country  fair — 
Races  and  trinkets  and  shows ! 

The  world  and  his  wife  were  there, 
But  never  a  country  rose. 

Races  and  trinkets  and  shows, 

Whithersoever  I  turned; 
But  never  a  country  rose 

Was  found  or  half  discerned. 

Whithersoever  I  turned, 

Bold  tongue;  and  bolder  eye 

Was  found  or  half  discerned 
Saying,  "I'm  here  to  buy." 

Bold  tongue  and  bolder  eye! 

Disgust  I  could  not  quell, 
Saying,  "I'm  here  to  buy 

What  no  one  has  to  sell!" 

Disgust  I  could  not  quell 

Nor  longing  for  my  goal. 
"What  no  one  has  to  sell 

Is  an  unvenal  soul." 

[   17   ] 


Nor,  longing  for  my  goal, 

Had  I  the  heart  to  leave. 
"Is  an  unvenal  soul 

Only  a  false  reprieve  ?" 

Had  I  the  heart  to  leave 

The  dream  my  hope  had   spun, — 
Only  a  false  reprieve 

Like  many  another  one? 

The   dream   my  hope   had   spun, 
The  world  and  his  wife  were  there. 

Like  many  another  one 
I  went  to  a  country  fair. 


18  ] 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  HILLS 

By  day,  upon  my  golden  hill 

Between  the  harbor  and  the  sea, 
I  feel  as  if  I  well  could  fill 

The  world  with  golden  melody. 
There  is  no  limit  to  my  view, 

No  limit  to  my  soft  content, 
Where  sky  and  water's  fairy  blue 

Merge  to  the  eye's  bewilderment. 

At  dusk,  upon  my  purple  knoll 

'Twixt  flaming  sea  and  harbor's  gloom, 
I  feel  as  if  I  well  could  toll 

The  round  of  passion  and  of  doom. 
Seldom  were  outlooks  more  unlike, 

My  melancholy  half  so  keen ; 
For  flare  and  cinder  cannot  strike 

Morning's  enkindling,  kindly  mean. 

Tonight,  upon  my  sombre  naze 

With  gleam  of  silvered  waters  lit, 
I  feel  as  if  I  well  could  praise 

The  moon  and  not  dishonor  it. 
Never  was  loveliness  more  pure 

Or  never  seen  by  eyes  of  mine ; 
But  oh,  my  measures  need  the  sure 

Magic  of  beauty  as  divine! 

[   19  ] 


THE  TEST 

There  are  no  two  men  who  act  alike: 
They  may  try  and  try,  but  the  way  of  each 
Differs  as  much  as  the  varying  bloom 
Of  every  different  peach. 

Man  or  tree,  it's  a  matter  of  soil, 

Of  sun  and  rain,  stock,  branch  and  flower, 

Whether  the  fruit  shall  fall  to  rot 

Or  ripen  to  helpful  power. 

Let  unconcern  graft  the  best  of  sprigs 
On  a  limb  that  runs  not  pure  of  sap, 
Blossoms  will  fail  or  droop  and  wilt, 
Though  cuddled  in  June's  own  lap. 

Even  when  buds  have  burgeoned  fair — 
Pledge  of  a  rich,  uncankered  crop — 
If  slackly  pruned,  surrendered  to  scale, 
Their  yield  will  waste  and  drop. 

False  is  the  refuge  of  surface  health : 

At  the  first  keen  glance  or  the  first  sharp  tooth, 

Fruitage,  whether  of  tree  or  man, 

Is  marked  as  lie  or  truth. 


SURE,  IT'S  FUN! 

What  fun  to  be  a  soldier! 

— EVERYKID. 

Sure,  its  fun  to  be  a  soldier!    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 

Upon  an  iron  shoulder-blade  to  tote  a  feather  gun ; 

To  hike  with  other  brave  galoots  in  easy-going  army- 
boots  ; 

To  pack  along  a  one-ounce  sack,  the  commissary  on  your 
track  ; 

To  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  to  a  right-and-ready  camp ! 

Fun? — Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

Yes,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 

To  loaf  along  a  level  road  beneath  a  cloudless  sun 

Or  over  fields  of  golden  grain,  kept  cool  by  puffs  of  wind 

and  rain; 
Then  richly,  more-than-fully,  fed,  to  stretch  upon  a  downy 

bed 

And  sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  while  the  stay-at-homes  weep ! 
Fun? — Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

Oh,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  catch  the  silly  enemy  and  get  'em  on  the  run  ; 
To  here  and  there  blow  off  a  head  with  just  a  bit  of 
chuckling  lead; 

[    21     ] 


To  bayonet  a  foolish  bloke  at  hide-and-seek  in  trench  and 

smoke ; 

To  shoot,  shoot,  shoot,  till  they've  got  no  legs  to  scoot ! 
Fun? — Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

God,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier!    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  lie  out  still  and  easy  when  your  day's  sport's  done ; 
With  not  a  thing  to  worry  for,  nor  anything  to  hurry  for; 
Not  hungry,  thirsty,  tired,  but  a  hero  much-admired, 
Just  dead,  dead,  dead,  like  Jack  and  Bill  and  Fred! 
Fun? — Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 


SOLDIER'S  SONG 

/  shall  return,  my  lass,  my  lass; 

I  shall  be  with  you  in  the  spring. 
War,  like  winter,  will  pass,  will  pass. 
I  shall  return! 

This  is  no  final  kiss  I  give : 
There  will  be  more  in  months  to  come. 
Courage !    Droop  not  gray  and  dumb ! 
I  shall  live  on  ...  as  you  will  live. 

How  do  I  know?    I  cannot  say. 
Ask  of  the  robins  southward  bound ! 
Love,  we  too  shall  both  be  found 
Here  with  a  song  this  coming  May. 

/  shall  return,  my  lass,  my  lass; 

I  shall  be  with  you  in  the  spring. 
War,  like  winter,  will  pass,  will  pass. 
I  shall  return! 


NIELLA 

1 

With  a  kiss  she  waved  him  from  her  door, 
And  smiled  for  all  the  rain. 
"O  boy,  my  boy.  .  .  .  tomorrow  night 
You  shall  be  my  light  again!" 

2 

Morning  danced  through  the  village  street: 
The  world  was  gay  and  warm  with  gold. 
Niella  dreamed  of  moments  sweet 
Spent  with  her  lover  bold. 

The  rosy  skein  of  her  dreams  was  snapped 
By  soldiers'  heavy  crunching  tread. 
She  stared  and  shrank  like  a  creature  trapped, 
Paled  like  a  creature  dead. 

Eight  tramped  past  her  window, 
Three  and  one  and  three; 
In  the  rear  a  sergeant  stiff  and  stern : 
And  all  but  one  marched  free. 

[   24   ] 


Now  dull  their  tramp,  now  duller  still  ; 

Fainter;  fading  away.  .  .  . 

Harsh  fell  the  silence,  brutal,  till 

It  seemed  to  lash  and  flay: 

And  then  a  crackling  came,  to  shrill 

Beyond  the  bournes  of  day! 


Seven  tramped  past  her  window, 
Two  and  two  and  two; 
In  the  rear  the  sergeant  stiff  and  stern: 
But  her  blank  eyes  looked  him  through. 

The  soldiers'  heavy  crunching  tread 
Beat  on  her  ears  like  a  hurricane  ; 
Her  mad  heart  seethed  like  molten  lead  ; 
Black  torrents  leached  her  brain. 

The  sun  turned  gray  like  a  sodden  coal; 
She  did  not  move,  she  did  not  cry. 
Snuffed  out  at  last  was  her  guttered  soul : 
She  had  no  death  to  die. 

5 

Alone  she  crouched  against  her  door, 

Blind  to  the  wishing  moon. 

"Oh,  boy!    My  boy!" — but  her  lips  were  dumb — 

"That  night  should  come  so  soon!" 

[   25   ] 


THE  RETURN  OF  BALDUR 

They  held  high  feast  in  Asgard  Easter  Day; 
For,  marking  that  the  world  of  man  smoked  black 
Despite  the  pleadings  of  the  mating  spring, 
Odin  rejoiced  and  welcomed  to  his  board 
All  of  the  blood-gods,  Moloch,  Mars,  Kwan  Yu, 
Monsters  from  Egypt,  India,  Babylon, 
Brutal  Assyria,  beasts  with  scaly  wings, 
Truculent  catlike  claws  and  breath  of  fire; 
And,  lightning  from  the  West,  the  quetzal-plumed 
Hare  of  the  Aloes  and  his  serpent  drum. 
And  these  derided  Him  of  Calvary, 
And  with  new  skulls  cast  lots,  Set  jeering:  "Foh! 
His  followers  are  ours  at  heart.     Alike 
They  lean  to  us;  so  let  their  rolling  heads 
Point  at  whose  altars  they  shall  bow  with  gifts'!" 
Laughter  crashed  out;  shivered  and  sank,  untongued: 
A  wraith,  fair  as  a  eucharist  lily, 

Glowed  in  their  midst,  moon-wistful,  wreathed  with  stars 
That  trembled  on  a  brow  which  arched  twin  dawns. 
Then  Odin:  "Thou!  Baldur,  my  son,  my  son!" 
And  Baldur:  "I.    Thy  word,  Father,  the  word 
Whispered  so  tenderly  as  I  lay  lost — 
Hast  thou  at  last  forgotten  it  ?    How  else 
Would  any  father  bid  his  son  farewell? 
Courage.     No  marvel  none  of  you  hath  guessed. 
[   26  ] 


Who  save  your  butt  hath  bosomed  it  for  death, 
Hanging,  the  scorn  of  soldiers,  to  redeem 
What  ye  would  rack  for  tribute,  lolling  safe  ? 
Oh,  I  have  wandered  far,  oh,  far!     Know  this: 
Men  are  but  mites,  and  yet  their  dreams  are  big. 
They  lose  themselves,  but  faced  with  such  as  ye, 
Would  find  their  souls  surging  on  holy  hate. 
Even  your  shadows  turn  them  to  the  sun ; 
Swaying  to  light,  soon  they  will  swing  to  love ! 
And  here  gleams  proud  Valhalla,  hero'd  once — 
Wouldst  thou  refill  it,  Sire,  with  less  than  men?" 
O  Eyes  of  glory!     Odin's  face  was  drawn. 
O  Eyes  of  glory,  eyes  of  golden  dawn ! 


27 


THE  NEW  BEATITUDE 

In  gay  Brabant  I   have  danced  till  the  night  turned 

rose, 

All  the  health  and  the  wealth  of  a  Rubens  before  my  eye; 
In  meadows  which,  only  the  tramper  of  byways  knows, 
I  have  drunk  of  the  joys  of  life  beneath  a  sky 

Glad  of  the  Angelus,  gladdened  by  love-looks  shy 
And  the  laughter  of  children  and  songs  of  men  who  mow; 
All  that  I  hear  today  is  the  harsh  dull  cry  : 
Blessed  are  they  which  died  a  year  ago! 

In  Picardy,  whose  most  mischief-bent  of  foes 
Was  the  tranquil  Somme;  where  art  could  beautify 

Each  hamlet  with  noble  shrines  that  spelled  repose, 
And  the  kindly  peasant  had  never  a  thought  to  deny 

A  bed  or  a  snack  to  the  stranger  wandering  by, — 
In  gentle,  smiling  Picardy,  all  aglow 

With  poppies  amid  ripe  wheat,  goes  up  the  sigh : 
Blessed  arc  they  which  died  a  year  ago! 

In  Poland  the  proud  whose  bounds,  erased,  enclose 
Broad  lands  which  swelled  and  rippled  rich  with  rye; 
Which  sadly,  bravely,  watched  the  swarming  crows 
Of  East,  West,  South,  rob  it  of  wings  to  fly, — 
In  Poland  the  royal,  stripped  to  a  ruined  sty, 
Rasps  through  the  reek  this  whisper  raucous  and  low 
(And  surely  the  rattle  of  death  conceals  no  lie)  : 
Blessed  are  they  which  died  a  year  ago! 
[   28   ] 


ENVOY 

Lord  Prince  of  Peace,  who  for  men's  sins  didst  die, 
Let  them  not  reap  the  whirlwind  that  they  sow! 
Leaven  of  Life,  do  not  Thou  too  reply: 
Blessed  are  they  which  died  a  year  ago! 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

"France  is  dying." 

— HlNDENBURG. 

If  France  is  dying,  she  dies  as  day 

In  the  splendor  of  noon,  sun-aureoled. 

If  France  is  dying,  then  youth  is  gray 
And  steel  is  soft  and  flame  is  cold. 
France  cannot  die!  France  cannot  die! 

If  France  is  dying,  she  dies  as  love 

When  a  mother  dreams  of  her  child-to-be. 

If  France  is  dying,  then  God  above 
Died  with  His  Son  upon  the  Tree. 
France  cannot  die!     France  cannot  die! 

If  France  is  dying,  true  manhood  dies, 
Freedom  and  justice,  all  golden  things. 

If  France  is  dying,  then  life  were  wise 
To  borrow  of  death  such  immortal  wings. 
France  cannot  die!     France  cannot  die! 


IN  A  SOUTHERN  GARDEN 

Bermudian  heath,  a  band  in  plumy  green 
With  scarlet  trumpets,  lines  one  mossy  wall ; 
Cascades  of  pigeonberry, 
Lavender-crested,  undulate  and  fall 
Over  another's  snowy  flank ;  the  sheen 
Of  virgin's-bower  makes  bright  the  rest, 
Each  blossom  like  a  moonlit  fairy 
In  bridal  best. 

Rich  bougainvillea  vaults  a  trim  kiosk, 
Its  purple  glumes  enheavening  tiny  stars; 
A  fruitful  avocado 

Shelters  with  glossy  leaves  capacious  jars 
Of  ferns:  on  every  side  invites  some  bosk 
Brilliant  with  flowers,  till  it  would  seem 
One  step  must  lead  to  El  Dorado, 
Youth's  golden  dream. 

Beauty  and  fragrance  bless  the  quiet  air: 

All  the  sweet  blooms  which  patience  earns  are  here. 

In  pebbled  path,  clipped  border, 

In  weeded  bed  and  fresh-pruned  shrub  appear 

The  signs,  the  proofs,  of  stern  but  loving  care. 

Strange  how  man  guards  mere  earth's  increase, 

Yet  cannot  keep  himself  in  order 

Or  grow  in  peace. 


HYMN  BEFORE  DAWN 

Through  the  clerestories  of  Heaven 

Tremble  a  myriad  lights, 
A  radiant  choir  that  whispers: 

"The  heaven  is  night's; 

But  the  night  is  God's, 
His  hour  of  doubt, 

Our  vigil  of  constancy!" 

Deep  in  the  chapels  of  Heaven, 

Visible  and  invisible, 
Wheel  the  Faithful  Seven. 

Hearken  to  Jupiter, 
Bishop  empyreal,  shout: 

"The  heaven  is  night's; 

But  the  night  is  God's, 
His  hour  of  doubt, 

Our  nocturns  of  loyalty!" 

Lo!     The  altar  of  Heaven! 

Its  shadows  are  fading, 
Melting  to  roseate  haze, 

N imbed  with  flames  that  are  singing: 

"The  heaven  is  ours 

Since  the  heaven  is  day's; 

[  32   ] 


But  the  day  is  God's, 
His  hour  of  hope, 

Our  lauds  of  faith: 
The  day  is  God's, 
Life-bringing, 

Heart  of  His  clemency !' 


[  33 


ANTIPODES 

I  leave  you,  and  I  leave  the  sun — 
The  sun  and  moon  I  leave  behind, 
Yet  smile  who  know  you  safe  in  one 
Sweet  spot  where  sun  and  moon  are  kind ; 
I  smile  who  know  you  safely  dream 
Within  their  friendly  glowing  bars: 
I  leave  with  you  the  moon  and  sun 
And  only  take  the  stars. 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  your  loss: 
We  part  for  such  a  little  while. 
I  watch  the  beaming  Southern  Cross 
And  smile. 


You  leave  me,  and  you  take  the  sun — 
No  sun  or  moon  you  leave  behind ; 
I  pray  from  dusk  till  night  is  done 
With  hands  that  seek  but  never  find; 
I  pray  the  sun,  I  pray  the  moon, 
That  you  are  safe  within  their  bars, — 
You  who  have  taken  moon  and  sun 
And  left  me — with  the  stars. 

Each  footfall  mocks  me  with  your  loss; 
The  moments  drag  to  ages  gray. 
I  watch  the  dimming  Northern  Cross 
And  pray. 

[   34  ] 


THE  CASUIST 

Had  I  met  her  anywhere 
But  the  place  we  chanced  to  meet, 
Would  I,  would  I,  O  my  Soul, 
Have  considered  her  so  fair, 
Found  her  half  so  sweet? 
Would  I,  O  my  inner  Soul, 
Have  designed  her  for  my  goal? 

Heart,  O  Heart,  you  ask  who  know ! 
It  was  praise  you  wanted  then 
Praise  and  love  and  love  she  gave, 
Love  which  set  itself  so  low 
That  it  thought  you  brave. 
Will  you  find  such  faith  again 
Anywhere  or  anywhen  ? 


[  35  ] 


HER  EYES 

All  the  night  long 

Her  eyes  have  haunted  me, 

All  the  warm  glow 

Gone  from  their  deep  soft  brown ! 

All  the  night  long 

Their  pain  has  daunted  me, 

And  put  me  in  the  wrong, 

And  weighed  me  down. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Oh!  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  .   !' 

They  seemed  to  say, 

"Why  did  you  go? 

Why  did  you  go? 

I  sent  you  away, 

I  know; 

But  dreamed  you  wanted  me 

Enough  to  stay!" 


THE  CASTLES  OF  YOUTH 

I  have  built  castles  in  Spain 
— Spain  of  the  rosy  dream, 
Where  never  the  moon  can  wane 

Yet  ever  the  sun  must  beam — 
Their  moats  a  magic  sea 

No  ship  may  furrow  through, 
Unless  its  captain  be 

Myself;  the  compass,  You! 

And  castles  I've  built  of  air 

Bastioned  by  dawn  and  eve, 
With  towers  that  soar  to  where 

Benignant  angels  weave 
Rainbows  of  melting  hue, 

Weave  them  to  arc  a  sky 
Whose  smiling  light  is  You, 

Whose  vanquished  storm  is  I. 


[  37  ] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MOONLIGHT 

You  seemed  so  young  today, 

So  rosy-fresh  and  wild, 

That  to  court  you  no  more  entered  my  thought 

Than  to  wed  a  child. 

Good  gardeners  do  not  pick  the  buds  of  May, 

Lest  June  should  yield  them  naught. 

Had  I  been  young  like  you, 

My  hands  might  have  reached  out  thoughtlessly, 

As  young  hands  do. 

But  now  beneath  the  moon.  .  .  . 

Is  it  that  you  have  aged 

Or  that  I  grow  young  or  suddenly  mad, 

By  spring  enraged  ? 

Good  gardeners  wait  to  pick  the  flowers  of  June, 

Though  May  buds  can  be  had. 

Were  I  as  young  as  you, 

My  hands  would  reach  out  selfishly, 

As Ah,  they  do! 


THE  COQUETTE 

Do  you  not  feel,  who  fail  to  see, 
That  every  look  which  lights  my  eyes 
Is  but  a  leaping  of  the  flames 
Which  from  your  presence  rise? 
How  can  you  fail 'to  see  or  feel 
What  all  my  glances  must  reveal, 
What  others  easily  surprise 
And  twit  in  spite  of  me? 

Do  you  not  feel,  who  fail  to  hear, 
That  every  word  which  shakes  my  voice 
Is  but  a  love-song  of  the  thoughts 
Which  in  your  sight  rejoice? 
How  can  you  fail  to  hear  or  feel 
What  all  my  pride  may  not  conceal ; 
When  others,  nudging,  mark  my  choice 
The  instant  you  draw  near  ? 

Do  you  not  feel — alas,  you  know 
My  every  word,  my  every  look: 
Plain  are  they  both  to  such  as  you 
Who  read  men  like  a  book. 
You  have  not  failed  to  see  or  hear, 
But  feel — how  may  you,  whose  veneer 
Of  tender  giving  cannot  brook 
The  rights  some  gifts  bestow. 

[  39  ] 


DIANA'S  SONG 

Strange  that  my  lips  were  songless  with  you  near  me, 

Since  in  your  nearness  all  of  me  was  song; 
That,  with  you  far,  they  ring  out  brave  with  paean 
And  move  the  strong. 

Strange  that  my  lips  are  songful  when  you  leave  me, 

Since  in  your  loss  my  heart  has  ceased  to  sing; 
And  strangely  sweet:  though  autumn  rule  their  cadence, 
The  song  is  spring. 

Strange  is  it?    No!    The  moon  that  dreams  enshadowed, 

Wakes  when  the  earth  divides  her  from  the  sun: 
Near  you,  I  reel  in  heaven ;  afar,  reflect  you, 
My  Golden  One! 


[   40   ] 


MARCH  IN  BERMUDA 

A  pride-of-India  breaks  in  bloom 

Above  me  as  I  dreaming  lie, 
And  films  with  green  and  lilac  lace 

The  even  azure  of  the  sky; 
Beyond,  below,  a  kaffir-boom 

Drops  scarlet  blossoms  on  the  face 
Of  waters  of  so  fair  a  blue, 

I  seem  to  see  the  eyes  of  you ! 

A  cardinal  alights  and  swings 

Above  me  as  I  dreaming  lie, 
And  pipes  devotion  to  his  mate 

Upon  a  cedar  bough  near  by; 
Afar,  unseen,  with  rapture  sings 

A  vireo  whose  trills  elate 
By  joy  of  life  so  sweet,  so  true, 

I  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  you ! 

The  sun  has  reached  its  highest  point 

Above  me  as  I  dreaming  lie, 
Nor  can  the  grass  or  all  of  me 

Its  net  of  gray  and  gold  defy: 
I  feel  a  welcome  warmth  anoint 

My  brow,  then  flood  me  like  the  sea,- 
So  warm  as  flame,  so  fresh  as  dew, 

I  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  you! 

[  4i   ] 


A  MAID  OF  THE  WOOD 

I  sought  my  love  at  home,  at  home, 
On  village  green,  in  field  and  wood  ; 
And  sweet  was  one  and  fleet  was  one 

And  one  was  simply  good. 
But  she  who  was  sweet  refused  to  roam, 
And  she  who  was  fleet  outstripped  my  pace, 
And  she  who  was  good  was  only  good, 

Lacking  a  comely  face. 

I  sought  my  love  afar,  afar, 

On  city  street,  at  play  and  booth ; 

And  cold  was  one  and  bold  was  one 

And  one  was  as  straight  as  truth. 
But  she  who  was  cold  was  as  a  star, 
And  she  who  was  bold  soon  flickered  out, 
And  she  of  the  truth  demanded  truth 

And  fled  my  arms  in  doubt. 

So  back  I  went  alone,  alone, 
And,  lonely,  deemed  it  wise  to  wed 
Her  of  the  wood,  the  simply  good: 

The  youth  in  me  was  dead. 
But  the  house  in  the  wood  was  like  a  stone, 
And  the  face  once  good  was  hard  and  gray- 
I  can  hear  her  now:  "Your  love  is  dead: 

You  took  her  heart  away!" 

[  42   ] 


YOLANDE'S  SONG 

Princely  he  seemed  when  riding  up, 
Noble  and  brave  as  his  rich  array, 
His  plea  the  truth  in  a  maiden's  eyes, 
His  prayer  to  drink  of  a  maiden's  eyes, 

His  pledge  to  drink  and  stay! 
But  the  first  sip  won  proved  a  stirrup-cup: 
His  golden  vows  were  gilded  lies! 
My  Prince  of  Dreams  came  riding  up, 

Only  to  ride  away. 

A  knave !    So  this  was  the  boon  of  Fate ! 
Yet  there  in  the  dust  where  our  pathways  crossed, 
Prudence  was  born  to  a  maiden's  heart, 
Womanhood  bloomed  in  a  maiden's  heart: 

Amends  for  an  idol  lost! 
Smiling,  I  sped  him  from  the  gate; 
Dry-eyed,  I  watched  my  Prince  depart; 
Nor  wept  when  left  alone  with  Fate: 

But  oh,  the  Dreams  it  cost! 


[  43   ] 


JUNE 

Floating  on  a  willow  pond, 

You  and  I, 
With  a  silver  wishing  moon, 

Fairy-shy, 

Sinking  till  it  hung  careening 
On  a  surging  hill  near  by. 
O  the  wistfulness  of  June, 
O  its  mystery  of  meaning, 
Lost  soon,  lost  soon! 

Floating  on  a  willow  pond, 

We  alone: 
Water-lilies  everywhere 

Softly  shone, 

Stars  on  waters  shadowed  faintly, 
Stars  too  lovely  to  be  known. 
O  the  wonder  of  you  there 
In  the  singing  silence,  saintly 
As  if  made  of  holy  air! 
O  the  innocence  of  June, 
Lost  soon,  lost  soon ! 

Floating  on  a  willow  pond, 

You  and  I : 
Time  and  wisdom  seemed  to  swoon 

Like  the  sky : 

[   44   ] 


Hearts  were  tremulously  burning 
Though  our  souls  were  soaring  high. 
O  the  dreamfulness  of  June, 
O  its  purity  of  yearning, 
Lost  soon,  lost  soon! 


[  45  ] 


HEAVENBORN 

There  are  some  maids  whose  lips  are  sweet 
And  hands  are  sweet,  but  only  you 

Are  fragrancy  from  head  to  feet, 
All  sweetness  through  and  through! 

And  some  there  are  whose  eyes  are  kind 
And  arms  are  kind,  but  only  one 

Within  whose  eyes  and  arms  I  find 
The  stars  and  moon  and  sun! 


46  ] 


THE  GOLDEN  PLOVER 

A  song  for  you,  golden  plover: 

Not  the  song  of  a  lover 

Who  dreams  of  a  blush, 

Nor  the  song  for  a  thrush 

Whose  music  is  tremulous,  sweet; 

But  a  song  for  a  heart  that  dares  tempest  or  hush, 

A  measure  for  wings  that  are  fleet. 

Fleet  .  .  .  fleet  .  .  .  fleet  .  .  .    ! 

Who  but  the  winds  can  trace  you,  chase  you  ? 

Flutter  of  lightning,  you  southward  sweep, 

To  the  wonder  of  thunder  you  overleap. 

Faster  .  .  .  faster  .  .  .  faster  .  .  .    ! 

Who  but  the  winds  can  face  you,  pace  you? 

Fearless  of  foaming  and  booming  and  crash ; 

Scorner  of  breeze,  adorner  of  zephyr; 

Come  .  .  .  gone  ...  in  a  flash! 

Speedier  .  .  .  speedier  .  .  .  speedier  .  .  .    ! 

Who  but  the  winds  can  overtake  you? 

Who  but  a  gale  can  check  and  shake  you? 

Who  but  a  hurricane  can  make  you 

Drop  to  the  earth  whose  worth  shall  wake  you 

From  your  frenzied  trance  of  flight? 

[  47  ] 


Like  a  volley  of  shot  your  flocks  alight, 
Scattering  gracefully  over  the  sedge, 
Palled  in  spume  from  the  cauldron's  edge. 
Surer  than  furrow's  is  breaker's  pledge: 
Whom  the  welter  of  sea  and  sky  invite, 
On  the  lands  of  man  show  sudden  fright. 

A  song  for  you,  golden  plover: 

Not  the  song  for  a  lover 

Who  dreams  of  a  flush 

Of  delicate  plumes  that  gleam  as  they  hover 

Over  a  flower  they  make  less  fair; 

But  a  song  of  wings  whose  miraculous  rush 

Is  measure  atune  with  the  air. 

Warriors,  not  courtiers  you, 

Your  courting  season  through, — 

Dotterel  darts,  befeathered  sober, 

Mellowed  with  yellow  by  brisk  October, 

Who,  from  his  Nova  Scotian  post, 

Hurls  you  over  the  swirled  Atlantic — 

Hurls  you,  pipers  corybantic — 

Straight  for  the  Venezuelan  coast: 

Two  thousand  miles!  two  thousand  miles! 

While  the  gods  of  Air  crowd  heaven's  aisles, 

With  loud-fleered  taunts  for  the  vaunting  boast 

That  man  is  peer  of  their  wing-born  host. 

"Ale!  .  .  .  Aie!  .  .  .  Aie!  ..." 
Whines  the  rancorous  Sheol  of  winds. 

[   48   ] 


Out  of  the  ooze  of  the  sulphurous  Gulf 

Springs  into  fury  the  Mocker  of  Masts, 

Snarls  through  the  Caribs  and  harries  with  blasts: 

Shrieking  seeks  )<ou,  sprites  from  the  North ; 

Ruffles  and  buffets  you,  grapples  to  check  you; 

With  maniac  might  would  baffle  and  wreck  you 

But  for  the  bow  of  sabre-reefed  isles 

Which,  faint  through  the  rack  of  desolate  miles, 

Whispers,  encourages,  beckons  you  forth, 

Calls  you  to  fall  from  the  maelstrom  of  wiles: 

"Oh-eh!  .  .  .  Oh-eh!  .  .  .  Oh-eh!  .  .  . 

Safety  we  promise  and  shelter  and  rest 

From  the  sweltering  Fiend  of  the  foul  Southwest!" 

Reek  of  the  fray  of  streaking  gray 

Moans  the  cheated  Harpy  of  winds: 

"Woh!  .  .  .  Woh!  .  .  .  Woh!  ..." 

On  the  shoulder  of  Night  expires  her  rage; 
So  melts  the  ocean's  counter-wrath: 
Day  blooms  .  .  .  like  a  rose  on  a  beryl  path 
In  the  Garden  of  Peace  of  the  Golden  Age. 

Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee! 
Joy  but  no  peace  for  you,  golden  plover: 
Only  in  June  may  you  play  the  lover, 
Satined  in  wooing  black  and  gold. 
Till  then  the  leagues  that  you  will  cover — 
The  lands  beneath  your  wings  unrolled — 
Are  all  the  leagues  of  land  that  stretch 
North  and  south  of  the  western  Line. 

[  49   ] 


Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee! 
From  Labrador  of  the  fog-wreathed  pine, 
Down  through  Bermuda's  salt-stained  vetch ; 
Over  the  Amazon's  maze  of  vine, 
Into  the  pampas  of  Argentine: 
Leaf  of  the  earth  or  scud  of  the  sea, 
You  pattern  the  summer's  ascendant  sign, 
Shunning  all  scenes  that  are  sun-bereft. 
Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee! 
Spring  of  the  North  is  astir,  golden  plover! 
Up  and  a-wing  to  its  glad  decree! 
Back,  with  a  ridge  of  the  world  to  your  left, 
You  mottle  the  length  of  a  continent's  chine 
To  weave  through  Alaska's  tundra-weft 
The  gold  of  your  annual  jubilee: 
There  joy  and  peace  to  love  combine! 
Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee!     Wee-o-wee! 

Goodie!  .  .  .     Goodie! Hist! 

Your  golden  rest  is  over: 

Off  with  your  splendor !     Away,  away ! 

On  with  the  coat  of  the  rover! 

Dip  it  and  dye  it  in  eastern  mist! 

Plunge  again,  skimming  the  dun  Atlantic, 

Blazing  your  southerly  cycle,  frantic ! 

Swing  with  the  moon,  mad  darts  of  October, 

Shafts  that  are  swift  as  her  rays  but  more  sober, 

Stealing  her  motes  and  the  sky's  autumn  gray! 

Away  from  the  love  of  the  North  that  elates  you ! 

Off  to  the  feast  of  the  South  that  awaits  you ! 

[  50  ] 


Flutter  and  rise  with  the  joy  that  translates  you 
To  sprites  of  the  air  from  brownies  of  clay ! 
Onward!  onward,  spirits  of  fleetness!  .  .  . 
Faster!  .  .  .  faster!  .  .  .  speedier!  .  .  .  speedier! — 
Gone !    Vanished !    Lost  like  the  sweetness 
Of  dawn  in  the  ripening  power  of  day! 


GNOMES  AND  GNOMIDES 

COMPARISONS 

Jupiter,  lost  to  Vega's  realm, 
Lights  his  lamp  from  the  sun-ship's  helm: 
Big  as  a  thousand  earths,  and  yet 
Dimmed  by  the  glow  of  a  cigarette! 


A  GRAIN  OF  TRUTH 

Self-satisfied  are  most  of  us, 
Except  when  singled  out  for  praise ; 
And  then  the  larger  host  of  us 
Put  on  youth's  most  embarrassed  ways, 
Disclaiming  any  marked  success 
Or  claiming  all  unworthiness, 
And — no,  not  one  in  ten  has  lied : 
Self-satisfied  are  most  of  us, 
But  with  what  little  satisfied. 


THE  EMPTY  RING 

Love  came  dancing  down  the  valley, 
Golden  honey  in  her  hands: 

Life  lacked  time  to  dillydally, 
Squeezing  money  from  his  lands. 

[   52    ] 


Life,  by  all  but  gold  forsaken, 

Wooed  with  money  in  his  hands: 

Love  had  vanished,  having  taken 
All  the  honey  from  his  lands. 


WINTER 

Hunger  and  cold  and  sullen  hate 
Shuffle  the  iron  street: 
What  wealth  is  this  that  grows  too  great 
For  kindness,  food  and  heat? 


FROM  A  CLUB  WINDOW 

Life,  as  I  see  young  old  men  fight 

With  sails  or  rifle,  scheme  or  faith, 

And  witness  oldish  young  men  pass 

This  gaudy  section  of  your  glass — 

I  doubt  if  War  may  not  be  right, 

Your  substance ;  Peace,  your  dawdling  wraith. 


EACH  TO  His  LIKING 

Champions  of  cities,  had  I  been  country-born, 
You  might  this  moment  spy  me  townward-striking, 
Famished  for  all  that  I  have  just  forsworn, 
Sure  it  would  give  me  freedom.     Each  to  his  liking  t 

[  53  ] 


COLONEL  ROOSEVELT  IN  DOMINICA 
(February,  1916) 

A  handful  of  blacks  drawn  up  on  the  quay  of  Roseau, 
Recruits     from     a     dozing    sun-drenched     island.       We 

wondered 

How  they  would  face  harsh  steel  and  vigil  and  snow. 
Then   he    spoke,    spoke   of   their   glory.      As   if   he    had 

thundered 
The  praise  of  the  gods,  they  straightened  and  stiffened  to 

men, 
With  the  look:  "Now  we  are  ready  to  die  again  and 


again 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER 

I  saw  him  carried  by: 

His  face  was  gray  and  his  tunic  tattered  and  stained : 
But  I  knew  from  the  steel  of  his  mouth,  the  flint  of  his 
eye, 

That  his  youth  remained. 


54 


HEREDITY 

By  day,  when  busy  at  my  desk, 
I  dwell  at  peace,  one  prosy  self 
Aloof  from  visions  opalesque, 
Though  will  may  sometimes  arabesque 
My  work  with  fancies  vision-won 
While  fellow  to  some  astral  sun: 
Will,  I  have  said ;  but  is  it  will 
Which  leavens  calmness  with  a  thrill, 
Belittles  learning  of  the  shelf 
And  what  I  flatter  as  my  Self? 

At  least  by  day  I  rarely  feel 
That  I  am  other  than  I  seem: 
Wax  to  a  multiquartered  seal; 
Hereditary  idle-wheel 
Transmitting  to  the  flesh  to  come 
Voices  at  loggerheads  though  dumb 
And  phantoms  of  so  many  a  dream 
They  are  more  live  than  people  seem. 

That  I  am  other  than  I  am 
There  is  no  doubt;  that  is,  I  know 
My  ego  is  a  surface  dram 
In  rivers  which  I  cannot  dam : 
For  with  the  sombre  tranquil  night 

[  55  ] 


A  legion  currents  foam  to  light 
Swinging  me  where  the  strongest  flow, 
Along  strange  banks  my  senses  know. 

The  terraced  temples  of  the  East 

Rise  painted  by  a  pearly  moon 

And  monstrous  shapes,  half  bird,  half  beast, 

Gaze  blindly  upon  golden-fleeced 

Barges  of  purple  where  the  clash 

Of  cymbals  weds  with  tabors'  crash. 

Could  I  but  reach  the  palmed  lagoon 

Promised  by  eyes  which  star  the  moon! 

Again,  I  skirt  a  marble  shaft 
As  graceful  as  the  nymph  wrhose  form 
Swells  from  its  side.     Grief  epitaphed 
Her  virtues;  but  the  way  she  laughed 
Love,  though  Terpander's,  would  have  failed 
To  fix  the  music  which  prevailed, 
A  melody  which  baffled  storm 
Save  in  Persephone's  dark  form. 

Are  these  not  oaks  that  gnarl  the  shore 
And  shadow  huddled  slabs  of  stone 
Scratched  with  rude  lines  which  keen  a  lore 
My  heart  was  bondman  to  before 
My  body  cleansed  itself  of  woad 
And  gave  to  Christ  its  bitter  load  ? 
And  there  is  one  who  stands  alone 
And  weeping  turns  my  heart  to  stone. 

[   56   ] 


Birches  are  twinkling  here,  their  slim 
Trunks  no  more  pliant  than  the  witch 
Who  gaily  hums  a  solemn  hymn 
While  swaying  from  a  silver  limb, 
Unconscious  of  the  satyr  face 
Stretched  from  its  Sunday  carapace, 
Innocent  of  thin  lips  that  twitch 
To  have  her  theirs  or  burned  for  witch. 

These  are  but  few  of  endless  scenes: 
Since  endless  can  I  see  them  all  ? 
In  some  I  catch  the  flash  of  skeans; 
In  some  the  glow  of  mangosteens; 
In  some  the  inns  of  Rabelais; 
In  some  the  bridges  of  Cathay: 
Palace  or  shrine,  embattled  wall, 
They  do  not  heed  my  voice  at  all ! 

By  night  when  all  seems  hush  and  peace, 
I  float  the  rivers  of  the  past; 
But  day  brings  gradual  release 
Till  all  these  spectral  journeys  cease, 
Letting  me  hold  a  sober  gait 
In  keeping  with  my  level  fate. 
Yet  I  with  other  "I"s  inwrought 
Know  man  for  mask,  his  every  thought, 
Impulse  and  act,  from  first  to  last, 
For  sparks  from  smithies  of  the  Past! 


[  57  ] 


SPELL  OF  THE  ORIENT 

The  East !    A  court  of  Mecca's  gayest  khan 

Where  Berbers  jostle  Mongols  from  Kashgar, 
And  Persians  kneel  on  rugs  of  Ispahan 

Mid  smoke  of  hookah,  flash  of  creese  and  dhar: 
A  motley  Babel's  rasping  tintamar 

Voiced  by  all  tongues  from  Tunis  to  Kabul ; 
Linked,  as  a  sword-thrust  and  half-vanished  scar, 

With  incense,  palms,  sighs,  and  a  lotus  pool. 

The  East!     Muezzins  chanting  the  Koran; 

Forbidden  Lhasa,  frowning  Kandahar; 
The  fluted  domes  of  sacred  Kairowan ; 

Tinkling  Rangoon  and  Veda-famed  Buxar; 
Visioned  like  pageants  witnessed  from  afar, 

Arabian  Nights  once  lived  through  days  at  school; 
Linked,  as  adventure  and  a  hushed  bazaar, 

With  incense,  palms,  sighs,  and  a  lotus  pool. 

The  East!    The  golden  Buddhas  of  Ho-nan; 

Dazzling  Golconda,  pearly-gulfed  Manaar: 
Wonders  like  those  still  fabled  of  Kashan 

Whose  well  gushed  wealth  as  from  a  magic  jar; 
Barbed  arrows  dipped  in  deadly  antiar; 

Thundering  tom-tom,  wildly  droned  arghool; 
Linked,  as  the  crimson  sun  and  evening  star, 

With  incense,  palms,  sighs,  and  a  lotus  pool. 

[   58   ] 


SALAAM 

Soul  of  the  East,  though  Juggernaut,  your  car, 
May  crush  the  West  which  makes  it  now  a  tool, 

Linked,  for  the  dreamer,  is  your  avatar 

With  incense,  palms,  sighs,  and  a  lotus  pool. 


[  59  ] 


A  WEST  INDIAN  DANCE 

Ho!    There's  a  dance  in  Ballahou! 
B'lip-b'lib-b'lip!  .  .  .  be-rum!  be-rum! 
Hark!    The  roll  of  the  big  tambou, 
Roll  of  the  goat-skin  barrel-drum! 

Over  the  river  to  old  Roseau 
Rumbles  the  call  of  the  tambouye: 
Over  the  river,  and  faster,  flow 
The  barefoot  blacks  to  their  wild  bele. 

See  them  grinning — Pierre,  Zabette! 
Are  they  going?    Who  is  not! — 
In  working  jupe,  in  gay  donillette, 
In  tatters,  in  no  matter  what! 

Watch  them  swaying  as  they  come, 
Turbanned  with  every  parrot  hue! 
B'lip-b'llb-b'lip!  .  .   .   be-rum!  be-rum! 
Aie!     There's  a  dance  in  Ballahou! 


60  ] 


CONSTANTINOPLE 
(ANN.  DOM.  330:1453:1912) 

Constantinople !    Wise  indeed  the  man 
Who  chose  the  Golden  Horn  to  sound  his  name: 
Though  muffled  by  muezzin-called  Koran, 
His  echoed  prowess  marks  the  West  for  shame. 

Six  thousand  hundred  times  this  wheeling  earth 
Has  swung  your  glories  to  an  eager  sun 
Since  he  thanked  God  for  smiling  on  your  birth, 
Caesar  for  Christ  from  Clyde  to  Babylon. 

Six  score  have  ruled  you  since  he  graced  that  seat 
Which  crowned  the  vastness  of  your  Hippodrome 
— Europe  and  Asia  mingling  at  his  feet — 
Great  symbol  of  terrestrial  grandeur  .  .  .  Rome! 

Six  score  have  ruled  you  since  that  golden  day, 

Armenian,  Macedonian,  Frank  and  Greek 

— Iconoclasts  of  all  but  gilt  decay — 

And  last  the  Turk :  prayers  could  not  save  the  weak ! 

Who  has  not,  Queen  of  Cities,  paid  you  court, 
Fawning  to  win  you  for  imperial  bride ; 
Leaguing,  to  tremble  in  a  palace-fort, 
With  pagan  brawn  and  asps  of  patricide. 

[  61   ] 


Haroun-al-Raschid  frowned  upon  the  site 
Flowered  with  gold  by  Chrysostom  the  Saint; 
Peter  the  Hermit  prayed  with  many  a  knight 
Where  Persia  heard  her  baffled  leopard's  plaint. 

Peasants  have  grasped  the  purple  to  your  gain, 
Their  will  your  law  to  lawless  Caspian  Sea; 
Patricians  shown  your  loudest  edicts  vain 
Without  the  voice  of  true  nobility. 

Slowly  the  eagles  that  proclaimed  your  rule 
From  Carthage  to  the  Euxine  Chersonese 
Homed  to  your  gates,  O  soon-to-be  Stamboul, 
Screeching  stale  triumphs  caged  in  terror's  peace. 

And  so,  while  Saracens  and  Goths  and  Huns 
Surged  to  your  walls  as  brush  for  failure's  pyre, 
Mohammed  scorned  your  carnage-dealing  guns 
And  breached  your  citadels  writh  living  fire. 

Fearless  your  conqueror,  fear-proof  his  host 
— Who  die  for  Islam,  earn  delights  divine — 
But  bravest  he  who  needed  courage  most, 
Falling  last  Caesar  when  last  Constantine. 

Ironic  thrust  of  Time  that  pricks  all  power: 
A  Constantine  could  rear  you  strong  to  God ; 
A  Constantine  must  face  that  bitter  hour 
When  Cross  bowed  down  to  crescent — Ichabod! 
[   62    ] 


Here  is  the  prophecy:  "The  Golden  Gate 
Shall  stand  to  arch  our  Lord's  returning  Cross!" 
If  true,  thank  God's  unvenal  headsman,  Fate: 
His  chosen  wheat  shields  Allah's  tares  from  loss. 

When  Christendom  was  younger,  western  kings 
Gripped  with  the  infidel  to  hold  a  Tomb: 
Today  their  sons  give  bribes,  pull  hidden  strings 
To  save  the  Padishah  from  easy  doom. 

(1916) 

Janus  exacts  a  twofold  revenue 
And  penalties  anticipating  Hell's: 
The  lies  of  Elba  earned  a  Waterloo; 
The  double-dealer  has  his  Dardanelles. 

As  for  the  peacock  whom  conceit  has  made 
The  Will  of  God,  how  swiftly  he  becomes 
Bashibazouk  as  well  as  renegade, 
Bringing  to  life  the  janizaries'  drums. 

He  struts  the  moment  spurring  to  his  death 
The  moulting  pheasant  whom  his  grandsire  plucked, 
The  suns  of  both  dark  moons  of  Astoreth 
Sneering  on  hopes  whose  sap  is  vampire-sucked. 

Constantinople,  near,  oh,  near  the  time 
When  San  Sophia  shall  be  sura-cleansed ; 
And  yet  for  some  your  matins  always  chime : 
The  glasses  of  the  arts  are  rosy-lensed ! 

[   63   ] 


TO  MAXFIELD  PARRISH 

Though  like  some  alchemist  of  simpler  days 
You  change  all  base  materials  into  gold, 
Yours  only  are  the  secrets  that  unfold 
A  sky  of  soft  enameled  chrysoprase  ; 
Yours  only  is  the  veil  of  magic  haze 
Through  which  a  terraced  garden,  wood  or  wold 
Allures  with  vistas  that  invite  the  old 
To  tread  again  youth's  unforgotten  ways. 

But  dearer  still  to  weary  workers  penned 
In  cities  are  your  pools  so  rich  with  calm, 
Your  straight  trim  cypresses  that  woo  the  West 
To  her  last  kiss.    What  fairy  crossed  your  palm 
With  understanding  of  just  how  to  blend 
With  stirring  beauty  beauty's  charm  of  rest? 


JOSEPH  CONRAD  (KORZENIOWSKI) 

Master  of  British  ships  within  the  past, 

Master  of  English  in  your  birth's  despite, 

As  master  men  will  name  you  though  the  night 

Of  coal's  onrushing  afrit  should  be  cast 

Over  the  final  sail-emblazoned  mast; 

Though  oceans  shrink,  blank  mirrors  save  to  flight 

Of  giant  wings,  shores  be  a  stale  delight, 

And  East  and  West  grub  cheek  by  jowl  at  last. 

For,  from  the  mouths  of  rivers  that  have  swept 
Through  half  the  world,  your  sea-sharp  ears  have  learned 
All  that  escaped  your  steady  sea-clear  eyes; 
And,  weighing  proudly,  fearlessness  has  kept 
Only  the  deep  simplicities,  so  turned, 
Glibber  confessions  buzz  a  plague  of  flies. 


RODIN 

Cold  bronze  he  has  made  articulate, 

More  scorching  in  its  eloquence  than  the  flames 

That  melted  it  to  his  will  of  fire; 

Cold  marble  he  has  made  compassionate, 

Wisdom  unfathomable  which  understands 

All  pain,  all  dread,  all  hunger,  all  desire; 

Cold  clay  he  has  made  animate, 

Life  that  exclaims: 

"You  are  but  babbling  shells:  I,  life  entire!" 

All  these  things  he  has  done,  this  god, 

Not  as  a  god  by  sure  austere  commands  ; 

But  by  thinking,  seeing,  feeling,  believing; 

By  invincible  patience  and  tireless  hands; 

With  a  back  of  scorn  for  the  self-deceiving; 

With  faith's  disdain  for  The  Day's  demands, — 

A  Titan  self-cast  in  his  masterful  mold, 

Who  has  fused  into  copper  the  meaning  of  gold, 

All  the  truth  he  could  scan, 

All  his  ardor  innate; 

Breathed  his  soul  in  each  stone;  poured  his  heart  in  each 

clod, — 
A  man, 
Who  stands  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Fate. 

Out  of  bronze  and  marble  and  clay,  formless,  cold, 
One  man  has  given  death  the  lie! 

[   66  ] 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE:  POET 

There's  a  caress  in  all  you  write : 

Silver  of  song  to  aching  ears 
And  to  the  heart  that  broods  in  night 

A  touch  that  weaves  a  smile  from  tears ; 
Magic,  which  like  the  rainbow's  arc, 

Carries  the  soul  from  cloud  to  sun 
Till  courage  laughs  away  the  dark 

And  wonders  what  it  had  to  shun. 

The  follies  launched  by  careless  youth, 

Cleansed  by  the  wearing  waves  of  years, 
Make  port  with  only  gold  of  truth 

For  all  but  moping  mutineers: 
Red  gold  for  them  who  still  would  dream 

Of  dawns  that  were,  of  Mays  long  past; 
And  gold  of  gold  of  purest  gleam 

For  them  who  make  their  May-days  last! 

There's  a  caress  in  all  you  write — 

Nay,  more!  the  visioning  of  seers, 
So  calm  that  we  forget  the  might 

Which  gathers  flowers  from  starry  spheres; 
So  delicate  that  it  can  take 

The  bloom  and  scent  of  all  the  springs, 
Leave  them  still  rich,  yet  with  these  make 

The  heights  and  music  born  of  wings. 


CERVANTES 

(Tercentenary) 

Not  only  England's  Ariel  sprite  is  ours, 

But  all  that  foils  unreason's  arid  reign 

By  pricking  windbags,  digging  deep  to  drain 

The  useless  moats  of  crumbling  feudal  towers; 

All  that  unspurs  the  strutting  knight  of  bowers, 

Demanding  of  true  chivalry  a  brain 

With  common  sense.     So,  turn  awhile  to  Spain ! 

Give  Stratford  time  to  smile  at  all  your  flowers. 

Close  on  the  day  whose  theft  assured  the  world 
Of  works  so  deathless  few  could  grasp  it  then, 
A  standard  of  as  fine  a  stuff  was  furled 
On  pluck  that  matched  Numantia's  grim  Amen! 
Salute  Cervantes,  warrior-wit!     He  hurled 
Spears  whose  least  splinter  nibs  our  sharpest  pen. 


[  68  ] 


TO  SARAH  BERNHARDT 

(March,   1915) 

We  are  all  sympathy;  and  yet  so  long 

As  you  have  tongue  and  lips  to  woo  from  speech 

Pure  gold,  the  world  remains  within  your  reach: 

For  you  are  armed  with  wings  of  spoken  song 

So  velvety,  so  exquisite,  so  strong, 

That  their  most  simple  rise  and  fall  impeach 

The  violin  of  harshness.    You  can  breach, 

Though  motionless,  the  hearts  of  any  throng. 

Age  cannot  claim  you,  nor  the  hand  of  death 
Do  more  than  sweep  your  graces  from  our  sight. 
Your  voice  shall  linger  in  the  honied  breath 
Of  summer  winds,  the  surging  of  the  wave, 
The  sighs  of  lovers  on  a  silver  night. 
Yours  is  a  sorcery  which  cheats  the  grave ! 


"NEITHER  BRUTE  NOR  HUMAN" 

Although  two  months  have  passed  since  the  appropria 
tion  of  $5000  to  purchase  the  Poe  Cottage  at  Fordham 
and  remove  it  to  a  site  in  Poe  Park,  the  famous  home  still 
stands  in  the  old  site,  in  danger  of  destruction  any  day 
from  falling  bricks  of  the  new  apartment  house  that  is 
being  erected  next  door.  .  .  .  In  this  cottage,  the  genius 
is  thought  to  have  written  "The  Bells/'  "Ulalume," 
"Eureka,"  etc.  His  wife,  Virginia  Clemm,  died  here  in 
1847,  her  end  hastened  by  privation. 

—Press  Clipping,  March  30,  1913. 

A  first  edition  of  "Al  Aaraaf,"  printed  at  Poe's  ex 
pense  in  Baltimore  in  1829,  has  been  offered  for  sale  in 
Washington  at  $2000.  The  last  copy  sold  at  auction 
brought  $2700. 

—Press  Clipping,  March  31,  1913. 

There  is  no  trace  of  wisdom  in  our  scheme 
Of  honoring  the  great:  we  grudge  them  bread 
When  living,  stint  our  praise;  yet  load  them  dead 
With  costly  stone  inscribed  with  loud  esteem. 
Soldiers  excepted,  for  the  dullest  seem 
Our  saviors,  heroes ;  but  the  brave  who  bled 
For  art — eccentrics,  till  their  fame  has  spread 
Our  own.    Then  watch  our  jostling  plaudits  stream! 

[   70  ] 


Beauty  and  song  have  welled  and  love  has  kneeled 
Within  the  compass  of  this  threatened  husk ; 
Here  Poe,  "the  genius" — empty  epithet! 
We  boast  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  cannot  shield 
One  little  roof  from  gain's  encroaching  dusk: 
We  clamor  for  an  hour  and  then  forget. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
GILBERT  LITTLE  STARK 

(1885-1908) 

He  is  not  gone  who  dwells  in  loyal  hearts. 

Yet  at  his  name  a  world  of  sorrow  smarts 

Even  in  one  who  only  brushed  the  truth 

Which  pollened  with  such  wealth  his  cheated  youth. 

And  so  with  all  that  knew  him :  for  to  know 
Was  but  to  love;  and,  loving  him,  the  blow 
That  leveled  so  much  fineness  reached  not  one 
But  many  and  made  hard,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

As  if  in  soft  reproof  his  hushed  lips  move 
With  unforgotten  charm :  no  common  groove 
Channeled  a  fire  whose  soaring  ardor  lent 
To  words  far  more  than  what  they  uttered  meant. 

Blossoms  he  filled  with  music  and  the  songs 
Of  birds  he  touched  with  color.     In  vast  throngs 
He  found  a  soul:  from  one  kind  heart  he  drew 
The  virtues  of  a  race — and  all  rang  true! 

Through  him  gray  deserts  flowered,  a  tombing  stone 
Yielded  a  live  warm  past;  a  mountain's  cone, 
All  art ;  and  spirits  of  the  woods  unrolled 
'A  painted  scene  of  blue  and  green  and  gold.' 

[   72   ] 


All  that  he  saw  became  of  moment,  all: 
Young  rice,  old  cliff,  a  bead,  a  waterfall! 
Silence  itself  he  quickened  into  speech: 
Nothing  was  blind  to  his  high  vision's  reach. 

No  wonder  that  the  East  lifted  the  veil 
Of  reticence  that  guards  her  inner  pale, 
Beckoned  him  on  and  gladly  bid  him  look 
Into  each  secret  thought,  each  sacred  nook. 

So,  like  the  moon,  he  gave  the  orient  sun 
To  the  antipodes,  when  day  was  done; 
And,  like  the  moon,  all  that  he  mirrors  seems 
A  perfect  wedding  of  our  richest  dreams. 


73 


APRIL'S  FOOL 

Spring!     Spring!     Spring!     Spring! 

Even  I  must  smile 
(I  who  hail  it  with  a  song) 
That  I  hail  it  in  a  song; 
For  the  fashion,  O  the  fashion, 
Is  to  still  a  singing  heart 
(Even  hearts  must  bow  to  Style) 
Or  to  treat  it  with  compassion, 
Proffered  as  to  weak  from  strong; 
And  to  mark  as  dearth  of  art, 
Lack  of  humor,  want  of  sense, 
Love  and  praise  of  any  thing 
To  be  had  without  expense : 
So  why  waste  the  breath  to  sing 
Free-to-all,  though  priceless,  spring? 

Spring!     Spring!     Spring!     Spring! 

I  may  even  laugh, 
Laugh  before  the  end  of  May, 
That  I  sang  of  spring  today. 
Yet  upon  the  cenotaph 
Of  a  goddess  yearly  dying, 
Lovely  phoenix  still  defying 
Burial  in  earthly  ground, 
Let  this  shadow  of  the  truth, 
Less  than  dust  of  truth,  be  found: 

[   74  ] 


Breath  of  spring  and  wing  of  youth, 
Youth,  Youth,  Youth,  Youth, 
Seem  for  one  sweet  moment  one, 
All  of  earth  and  moon  and  sun ! 
For  a  moment  I  am  blind 
To  the  sneers  of  humankind, 
Dull  to  all  but  zest  of  life, 
Sea  to  scythe  and  air  to  knife ! 
Drunk  with  spring?    I  am  the  spring! 
So  I  sing  myself  who  sing, 
Grateful,  joyous,  shameless,  sing: 
Spring!     Spring!     Spring!     Spring! 


[  75  ] 


THE  KEY  OF  HEAVEN 

Is  it  the  things  a  man  has  done 
Or  has  not  done  that  will  decide 

If  he  shall  know  some  deathless  sun 
Or  cease  to  be,  a  soul  denied  ? 

Is  it  the  things  essayed  or  done 

— Some  heart-bent,  self-defiant  act — 
Or  left  undone — mere  caution's  pact 

With  shibboleths  of  what  to  shun? 

Shall  darers  of  a  chartless  sea 
Or  they  who  file  the  posted  road 

Be  made  the  winners  of  the  key, 

If  key  must  force  a  God's  abode? — 

The  choosers  of  a  siren'd  sea, 

Peers  with  the  angel-demon  Life, 
Or  carpet-knights  to  Coelebs'  Wife 

Whose  eyebrows  mark  their  apogee? 

When  has  a  fixed  and  drab  cocoon 
Outflown  the  butterfly  or  moth  ; 

Clay  pot,  tureen  or  silver  spoon 

Excelled  live  flame,  outsavored  broth  ? 

Let  larva  hug  the  safe  cocoon, 

The  gift  of  wings  should  rouse  the  wish 
To  soar,  not  creep  around  a  dish 

Smacking  of  pap  for  some  poltroon. 

[   76   ] 


Surely  the  things  a  man  has  done, 

Though  marred  in  doing,  weigh  for  more 

Beneath  a  spotted  golden  sun 

Than  guarded  pits  of  unworked  ore. 

Though  evil  flaw  the  good  that's  done, 
Sooner  at  death's  assay  submit 
The  tarnished  than  the  counterfeit, 

Life  crushed  by  overuse  than  none! 


77 


THE  VIOLIN 

There  is  dirge  or  a  fling  in  the  bagpipe's  whine; 
There  is  shuffle  and  swing  in  the  banjo's  thrum; 
In  tantara  of  horn  leaps  the  fire  of  wine, 
As  in  blare  of  trumpet  and  rumble  of  drum: 
But  sweet  are  the  delicate  melodies  from 
The  lute  and  flute  and  Chinese  k'in, 
Yet  all  are  silenced  or  overcome 
By  the  velvet  voice  of  a  violin. 

The  organ  and  harp  are  grand,  divine; 
Pleasant  if  sharp  is  the  zither's  strum ; 
In  shriek  of  fife  sounds  the  battle-sign, 
As  in  blare  of  trumpet  and  rumble  of  drum: 
But  joyous  and  zestful  the  bombulum 
And  zell  and  bell  and  reed-notes  thin, 
Yet  all  are  made  heavy  or  hollow  or  dumb 
By  the  velvet  voice  of  a  violin. 

At  the  lilt  of  guitars  true  lovers  pine, 

While  they  reel  like  the  stars  to  the  clashing  sum 

Of  cymbals  and  gong,  with  eyes  that  shine — 

As  in  blare  of  trumpet  and  rumble  of  drum : 

But  for  peace  the  bow's  caressing  hum, 

The  mellow  cello's  relief  from  din ; 

Most  tenderly  given,  when  hearts  are  numb, 

By  the  velvet  voice  of  a  violin. 

[    78   ] 


ENVOY 

Prince,  whatever  the  depths  I  plumb 
— As  in  blare  of  trumpet  and  rumble  of  drum- 
Let  me  be  called  to  your  Golden  Inn 
By  the  velvet  voice  of  a  violin. 


79 


MOTORING  BY  NIGHT 

Down  a  moonglade  of  our  making  do  we  glide 

On  a  glowing  stream  that  rolls  the  eventide 

Into  banks  of  shadowland  mounting  high  on  either  hand 

Up  to  where  the  golden  stars  lantern  the  celestial  cars. 

Oh,  the  floating  sweep  and  swing  of  our  course, 
As  though  flying  on  some  phantom  winged  horse 
With  enchanted  eyes  that  beam  cool  for  all  their  sunny 

gleam, 
Marking  every  dip  and  bend  from  the  start  to  journey's 

end. 

Wakened  flowers  breathe  a  blessing  on  the  air ; 
Beauties  hidden  from  the  noonday  everywhere 
Rise  alluringly  unreeled — for  so  brief  a  glimpse  revealed, 
They  are  lost  as  soon  as  seen  on   that   mocking  magic 
screen. 


80 


REACTIONS 

To  A  LIFE-PLANT 

Life-plant  with  your  stem  so  tall 
And  that  canopy  of  bells 

Apple-green  and  claret-red, 
Are  you  not  a  parasol 

Used  by  pixies  of  the  dells, 
Gentle  fairies  who  have  fled 

Just  because  a  man  has  come, 

Man  the  harsh  and  quarrelsome  ? 

When  I  cut  a  leaf  from  you, 
Nail  it  somewhere  selfishly, 

Trophy-like  as  humans  will, 
Good  Samaritans  of  dew 

And  the  wizard  sunbeams  see 
To  its  wounds  and  wants  until 

Heaven's  soft  answer  to  my  knife 

Is  a  gloriole  of  life! 


TO  A  VlREO 

Chick  of  the  village — so  they  name  you 
From  your  challenge  brisk — 

Surely  special  sunbeams  frame  you 
On  your  tamarisk. 

[  81   ] 


Cheery  suit  of  green  and  yellow; 

Eyes  alert  with  light: 
Such  a  self-reliant  fellow 

For  so  wee  a  mite ! 

Are  you  ever  crushed  and  gloomy, 

Merry  vireo? 
Never,  with  a  sky  so  roomy 

And  all  earth  below! 


To  AN  OLD  SUGAR  MAPLE 

There  are  wounds  in  your  side,  old  one; 

And  now  you  are  dying, 
Who  were  planted  by  his  bride,  old  one, — 

Of  whom  he  is  crying, 
"Oh,  she  is  gone — my  wife,  the  core  of  my  life," 

Not  knowing  he's  lying. 

You  were  fair,  you  were  brave,  old  one, 

Till  he  drained  you — the  miser; 
And  her,  his  pinched  slave,  old  one: 

Yet  hark  to  him  prize  her, 
"Oh,  she  is  gone — my  wife,  the  core  of  my  life," 

Not  one  whit  the  wiser ! 


82 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SILENCE 
(SESTINA) 

Deaf  as  the  dead,  stone-deaf:  and  so  for  me 

Life  has  untongued  the  silver  bells  of  sound ; 

But  spares  me  this,  the  stabbing  cries  of  pain 

Wrung  from  warm  hearts  that  lose  or,  worse,  are  lost 

And  opens  wide  the  windows  of  my  eyes 

That  I  may  read  the  wonders  heard  by  you. 

For,  think!  does  spring  or  autumn  hold  for  you 
Such  wealth  of  color  as  they  fling  to  me? 
Such  clues?    Try  once  to  listen  with  your  eyes 
To  bird-call,  tide-rip — yes,  to  see  a  sound, 
If  you  would  learn  what  I  have  gained — and  lost; 
If  you  would  know  the  joy  that  lines  my  pain. 

This  is  no  grudging  claim  that  joy  or  pain 

Is  felt  by  me  more  keenly  than  by  you; 

But  that  for  song  and  laughter's  music  lost, 

Body  of  sigh  and  word  denied  to  me, 

I  have  been  given  interpreters  of  sound 

Held  cheaper  where  sharp  ears  are  used  as  eyes. 

True,  there  are  overtones  to  help  my  eyes 
— Fluttering  elves  too  small  to  carry  pain — 
Which  time  with  boom  of  surf,  rain-patter,  sound 

[   83   ] 


Of  dancing,  even  the  tread  of  lucky  you. 
From  head  to  foot  these  kiss  and  comfort  me 
Till  I  forget  the  treasures  they  have  lost. 

Brave?    Alas,  no!    There  have  been  nights,  when  lost 
In  gloom  which  seemed  to  mock  my  straining  eyes, 
That  I  have  begged  blank  space  to  stifle  me 
Lest  the  mad  waves  of  suffocating  pain 
Flood  my  sick  soul  with  hate  for  such  as  you — 
A  soul  for  sale  for  one  short  whispered  sound ! 

The  world  as  silence  growing  rich  with  sound — 

For  poor  dull  ears  how  great  a  gamut  lost! 

But,  as  a  motley  pantomine,  with  you 

As  Harlequin  or  Clown  with  wistful  eyes, 

Fairy  or  Fop  or  Columbine  in  pain — 

How  broad,  how  deep,  how  eloquent  to  me! 

Don't  pity  me !     Fate  sealed  my  house  to  sound. 

Though  mine  the  pain  of  loving  voices  lost, 

Life  gave  me  eyes.     I  give  Life  thanks.     Do  you? 


A  MOTHER  TO  HER  FIRST-BORN 

Like  other  babies?    Never!     In  your  eyes 
Shine  all  the  glories  of  last  summer's  skies! 
From  that  small  face  glow  all  the  dawns  that  were, 
All  the  shy  moons  that  made  my  girl's  heart  stir! 
Your  hands  are  roses,  pink  like  those  that  he 
Pinned  on  my  breast  the  night  he  said  to  me: 
"I  love  you!"     Mine,  O  Mine,  to  look  at  you 
Is  to  have  all  my  dreams  of  love  come  true. 


THE  PRESENCE 

Gone  is  the  Galilean? 

Nay !     He  will  always  come, 

The  breath  of  life  His  paean 

With  land  and  sea  His  drum 

And  psaltery  Orphean, 

Shaming  Laodicean: 

The  smugly  deaf  and  dumb! 

He  is  the  seed  supernal, 
Blossom  and  fruit  of  earth, 
His  fairest  garments  vernal 
To  make  us  shout  His  worth; 
A  quickening  eternal, 
A  harvesting  diurnal, 
Perpetual  rebirth! 


[  86  ] 


TREBIZOND 

When  I  was  king  of — There!  it's  gone! 
That  word  whose  loss  imprisons  me 
Plays  traitor  with  the  master-key. 
Always  I  wake  too  late,  too  soon: 
Either  the  sun  has  gilded  bit 
And  ward  until  they  will  not  fit 
Or  it  is  dangling  in  the  moon. 
Tell  me  my  kingdom,  Leprecawn, 
Goblin  or  Glendoveer  or  Faun ! 

Sometimes  the  answer  starts  to  flame, 
Set  deep  with  rubies  in  a  crown 
Or  nacred  on  the  filmy  gown 
Which  swirls  about  my  sylph  of  dreams: 
And  then  a  mace  of  steatite 
Stuns  me  just  as  I  have  it  right, 
Leaving  a  mock  of  splintered  gleams. 
Speak!     Did  I  fall,  then  limp  too  lame 
For  Mithridates'  vaunting  aim? 

And  yet  .  .  .  oh,  why  does  Trebizond 
Spell  me  as  never  Greece  nor  Rome? 
And  why — /  come,  majestic  Dome, 
The  conqueror  of  Samarkand! 


/  come,  my  Blue-and-G olden  One, 
Your  Basileus,  your  mitred  Sun! 
I — God,  what  scepter  burns  my  hand?- 
Rhymester  and  wayward  vagabond, 
Light  of  a  realm  unparagoned ! 


88   ] 


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